There are places where the physical space is only a point of reference. They look like there were born, and maybe they are, to be spiritual places, out ports
where to land with all the small subversions and infinite complicities accompanying the life of each of us.
That is Furore, first of all, and its geography confirms it. The terraced land where the olive trees and the grape vines hang on to bushes and rocks; stone steps descending to the sea; hairpin turns connect the blue color of the mountain sky with the sea; the landscape is shore up by houses and arches warding off any traditional image of a town; domes, bell towers and vivid ceramics, and at the bottom of the mountain, the Fiord with its unrepeatable magic, the sea warbling and foaming. It is the secret face of the Coast line you have just started discovering.